"That too is difficult. I believe it is called Belvoir. By the way, I am Dr. Ian Phillips, at your service."
"Then you are a doctor!" Justin exclaimed. "Would you mind explaining what's happened to me?"
"A doctor of philosophy," was the gentle reply. "I was rather hoping that you, sir, were a physician."
"Charles Justin, alleged banker, at your service." Justin swung his legs over the side of his cot, tested the floor, stood up. He discovered he was holding the spider clutched in his right hand, dropped it unobtrusively into his pocket. He must have taken it while falling asleep.
"You must be an American, Mr. Justin," said Dr. Phillips.
Justin, slightly bemused, said, "What? Oh—yes, Boston."
"Remarkable," Dr. Phillips said unexpectedly, "that we should have two Bostonians with us."
"Let's count ten and start over again," Justin told him. "Isn't this Boston?"
"Hardly!" Dr. Phillips' laugh was dry and sharp. "This is Belvoir. As to myself, I was in my diggings in London, taking a doze after tea before marking some tests, when I made the trip here."
Justin made his way to a chair in the corner and sat down heavily. Dr. Phillips said, "Perhaps I'd better get your fellow Bostonian. I don't seem to be doing you much good."